The Cronk Chronicles
by DianeB
Summary: Portwenn from young Peter Cronk's point of view.  From the S1 episodes, "The Portwenn Effect" and "Haemophobia," and the S2 episode, "In Loco."  Peter is wise beyond his years and perhaps he sees things others cannot.
1. Flight

Title: The Cronk Chronicles, Chapter 1 (Flight)  
Author: DianeB  
Rating: PG-13

Summary: Portwenn from Peter Cronk's point of view (mostly) from the S1 episodes, "The Portwenn Effect" and "Haemophobia," and the S2 episode, "In Loco." Peter is wise beyond his years, and perhaps he sees things that others cannot.

A/N: Providing only Peter's point of view proved to be _quite_ a challenge, and I fear I may have overdone it a little. But I enjoyed myself writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it! Many thanks to **Littleguinea** from fanficdotnet for her fair eye to editing and to checking the "Americanisms." (Revised thank you: It would have helped if I had actually taken **Littleguinea**'s advice regarding editing and "Americanisms." Alas, I did not, and this chapter ended up being posted without the fixes. So on 3/16/11, I went back and made the corrections and reposted the content of this chapter.) Written March, 2011, soon after I watched these episodes on DVD.

Disclaimer: This story is for entertainment purposes only. I claim no right to anything affiliated with _Doc Martin_.

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Sitting outside Mrs. Potter's house at the explicit instruction of Miss Glasson, Peter Cronk considered his predicament. It wasn't that he hated Mrs. Potter or wanted to deny the rest of his classmates the opportunity to learn about a stupid finch, it was just that lately he was bored _all_ the time and wasn't sure how to get around it. At least Miss Glasson's discipline was better than suffering Mrs. Potter's silly bird adoration. Now, if she had something interesting or rare to show – like a gyrfalcon or a chough or something – but, no, it was always the most dreary, most common species one could find in the area. Didn't she realize that finches came by the hundreds, each one exactly the same as the next?

Perhaps the worst part of it was, he knew perfectly well what Miss Glasson was saying about being polite. He knew it wasn't about knowledge, it was about being nice to an old lady, but he just couldn't get past the bloody _dullness_ of it and so he did what his mum was forever telling him _not_ to do: act up. But the thing was, acting up nearly always gained him exactly what he'd wanted in the first place: sitting alone, usually in the library, but occasionally, like today, in a relatively unusual place like Mrs. Potter's front steps.

The brief thought of his mother brought an image of her to his mind. He shook his head and smiled to himself, kicking at a loose pebble. His sweet, fragile mum whose panic-induced asthma attacks were going to be the literal death of her. Try as he might, he could not stop her attacks and felt a failure because of it, wondering if that didn't have something to do with why he preferred books over people.

Probably.

Sometimes he wondered if he weren't an old man, trapped inside a nine-year-old's body. Maybe he would ask Doc Martin about it.

A sound from the back of the cottage roused Peter from his navel-gazing. He turned his head toward the sound and shifted on the step, knowing he shouldn't move. But when the sound came again, like wood banging against wood, his curiosity got the better of him. As he was carefully picking his way to the garden, his eye caught the sun's reflection on a window behind which sat Mrs. Potter at a table in front of a cage, his classmates in a circle around her, and the temptation was too much to resist. At least outside, on the other side of the glass, he could play the fool without fear of ridicule, fully willing to accept the consequence Miss Glasson would surely bestow on him. It might even mean another hour or two in the library, he thought happily, because even Miss Glasson wasn't quite getting the fact that a better punishment would be forcing him to take PE.

But after a minute of making faces through the window, he grew bored again and recalled the reason why he was back there in the first place. He looked down into the garden and saw the source of the sound.

Mrs. Potter's bird tables were in shambles, destroyed beyond recognition, and one piece of wood, dangling precariously at the end of a nail, was swinging back and forth in the sea breeze, knocking against the wooden pole as it did so.

Walking down into the garden, he was trying without success to put things right when he was caught and blamed not only for this destruction, but for other demolished bird tables throughout the village. For reasons unclear even to himself, Peter decided not to deny that he had done the deeds, even at the risk of being arrested and charged with criminal damage.

All told, he rather preferred the idea of being locked behind bars, since the alternative seemed to be making new bird tables with PC Mylow, and he was quite certain he _didn't_ want to do that. He went so far as to voice that preference, but his wit did not impress PC Mylow.

In the end, of course, the adults made the decision for him. He was released to his mother, with a plan of making new bird tables with Mark Mylow at some point in the very near future.

An hour later, sitting alone in his room, reading _Lord of the Flies_ for what might have been the forty-seventh time, Peter Cronk slapped the book closed and made a decidedly nine-year-old's decision about how to keep the world of Portwenn from ganging up on him.

He would leave.

Stuffing his backpack with what he determined were "necessities" (chocolate bars, books, a bottle of water, a torch with fresh batteries, a handful of coins from his bank, and his binoculars), he left his house and set off down the road, stopping only at the recycling bin to grab a piece of cardboard for a sign. He knew everyone in the village, including his dear mum, would be too caught up in that stupid dance to notice his departure, and he was not wrong.

**oOo oOo oOo**

Later on, unbeknownst to young Peter, the real culprit of the wrecked bird tables had been discovered in the person of Stewart, the deranged Park Ranger and his paranoid delusions about the "greys" coming into the village to feed. Standing outside the town hall, the villagers came to understand it hadn't been Peter after all and they'd been wrong to blame him, but by then Peter was already miles down the road, with no one the wiser that he was gone.

**oOo oOo oOo**

Spending the night in an abandoned barn was not Peter's idea of a good time, but he really didn't see any other choice. After relieving himself in the meadow beyond the barn, he made a bed of sorts in the dry but fragrant hay, pulled out his books and his torch, and, chewing on a chocolate bar, made himself as comfortable as he could. He tried to read for a while, but found he couldn't concentrate.

Being by himself in the library was one thing, but this was something else entirely. Suddenly, running away was not as glamorous as he'd imagined while sitting on his bed at home. Still, he had made the decision to go, and he would not back down from it. His mum would adjust, Miss Glasson would be relieved not to have to deal with him, and the village would be better off without him.

He glanced at his cardboard sign, propped up against a pile of bricks. Bristol was a fair distance away, but he was confident he'd get enough lifts to be there by the next night. He wasn't sure what he'd do after that, but he knew he could sort it out when he got there. He'd read _Oliver Twist_, after all, and he fancied himself a Twenty-First Century Artful Dodger. Bristol may not have been London, but it would do for him.

Sensing movement in the pitch-dark rafters, he recognized it for what it was: an owl. This was soon confirmed when the owl hooted softly, and it was this sound, known and comforting, that lulled Peter into an uneasy slumber.

**oOo oOo oOo**

The morning brought awareness that Peter was gone, which of course did nothing for his mother. Louisa, who'd called at the house to apologize to Peter for blaming him for the ruined bird tables, tried to get Joy to relax and breathe, all the while wondering how soon she could get someone looking for Peter.

**oOo oOo oOo**

Peter saw the car coming, but didn't identify it until the vehicle was nearly on him. Knowing he didn't have the stamina to outrun PC Mylow (too many days sitting out PE and possibly some inherited asthmatic problems, he guessed), he nevertheless felt compelled to try. Tossing the sign, he went tearing off across the field.

It didn't take long for Mylow to tackle him to the ground, and as Peter landed on his wrist and felt a sharp pain, he decided to play it up, to see if Doc Martin would take pity on him.

The doctor, unfortunately, barely gave him a second look. Both men then delivered him unceremoniously to the school, where he ended up sitting on a bench in the hallway, waiting for his mum to arrive, wondering what would become of him this time. He suspected either a lot of time behind bars for real or in the lifeboat house making bird tables with Mark Mylow.

Clearly, running away wasn't the answer, but he wasn't sure what the _question_ was, let alone the answer. Sometimes it was hard being a kid.

He'd been there a few minutes when Doc Martin himself came to sit beside him, now apparently ready to give serious attention to his "injury." But Peter knew the doc would know right away there was nothing wrong with his wrist, so he spoke first on an entirely different subject, hoping to take the attention away from his wrist.

"Nobody wants me here. They all gang up on me."

To Peter's dismay, the doctor went about inspecting his wrist, saying "Make a fist," clearly not interested in listening to Peter's tale of woe. Peter was about to add Doc Martin to the list of people who didn't want him here when it became apparent the doctor _had_ been listening after all. "Well, we all feel left out from time to time, Peter."

The truth of this was hard to deny, but it was equally as hard for Peter to deny a smart-arse response, missing entirely how very much he sounded _exactly_ like Doc Martin himself. "What do you know?"

The doctor replied with what Peter already knew the doc knew. "I know there's nothing wrong with your wrist."

Peter lifted and twisted his wrist, to show how right the doc was. "Could have told _you_ that. It's a grade one mild sprain, ligaments stretched, maybe, but not broken." He looked up and caught Doc Martin's eyes, and something inside Peter told him to chance telling the absolute truth this time. "People think I'm being rude, but I'm not. I just say what's in my head, you know?"

Brows furrowed, the doctor immediately agreed with him. "Yeah, I do know."

It seemed wrong to be happy – considering what they were talking about – but Peter was, indeed, happy he had opted for the truth, and allowed a small smile to cross his lips, a smile he was sure Doc Martin hadn't seen.

About then, Miss Glasson came out into the hallway and again apologized for blaming him about the bird tables, asking him with clear frustration why he never spoke up for himself.

Peter shrugged and didn't say anything, having no answer now any more than he'd had when he'd been in Mrs. Potter's garden. Thankfully, his mother arrived at that moment, sparing him having to say anything more about the whole lot – bird tables, sprained wrists, or whether or not he (or Doc Martin) fit in.

End Chapter 1


	2. Team Games

Title: The Cronk Chronicles, Chapter 2 (Team Games)  
Author: DianeB  
Rating: PG-13

See Chapter 1 for original Summary, Author's Notes, and Disclaimer.

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Apparently, his teacher was not as clueless as he'd thought prior to his great escape. Miss Glasson forced him the following week to do PE with the rest of his classmates, his questions about the logic of her statements regarding "getting the heart beating," and "the exact reason why you _should_ play team games is because you don't want to" falling on deaf ears, or at least on ears that would not take his bait.

After Miss Glasson declared him her "special project," he switched tactics, certain it would get a rise from her. "Is that 'cause you've given up with Doc Martin?"

The mention of the doc's name in this context clearly startled her, but she worked hard to keep it from her face. To cover, she said, "I'll be giving up with _you_ in a minute."

Peter, pleased with himself at having confirmed his suspicion about his teacher and Doc Martin, fell back on a reliable argument. "Good. _Then_ can I go to the library?"

Miss Glasson just rolled her eyes and pointed toward the playground.

**oOo oOo oOo**

The game turned out to be just as vile as he had known it would be, so when the class bully grabbed his ankle as he was descending the first ladder, Peter didn't make a single effort to stop his fall, banging his chest on the edge of a metal platform on way down. He knew immediately by the pain radiating from his middle that something bad had happened on the inside, but he knew his mother would stop breathing if she thought he'd been seriously hurt. Add that to the fact that everyone was standing around watching, and there was no way he was going to show any pain. Instead, he responded to Miss Glasson's frantic concern with a glib "Now can I go the library?"

**oOo oOo oOo**

While lying on a bed waiting for Doc Martin, Peter continued to play down his pain, pleading with Miss Glasson not to tell his mum about what had happened. She wouldn't agree, and instead tried to convince him that if he let people tease him and see the funny side of it, they'd think he was "all right." He didn't believe that for a minute, and even Miss Glasson admitted that it was easier said than done.

Doc Martin arrived in a rotten mood, and Peter observed Miss Glasson and the doctor engage in a conversation that seemed to have more to do with what they didn't say than what they did. After that, the doc turned his attention to Peter. "Where does it hurt?"

"It's all right," Peter said, knowing it probably wasn't.

"When you're the doctor, you can make that judgment." The doctor asked again, "Where does it hurt?"

"It doesn't."

Miss Glasson left then, saying tersely as she turned back toward the classroom, "Right. I'll just leave you to it."

Doc Martin went back to Peter. "Where did you fall?"

Peter tapped his chest, continuing to pretend he felt no pain. "Landed on my front. Just bruising. Definitely nothing broken." The doctor felt his ribcage first, and then his head. "Told you," Peter went on, as the doctor affixed the stethoscope to his ears, "I happen to know with a cracked rib, you get—"

The doctor cut him off with a quick "Shush. Breathe in," which Peter obediently did. "Out," which Peter did again.

As the doctor removed the stethoscope, Peter felt a great need to prove to Doc Martin that he wasn't stupid. "I've done some reading..."

But the doc's mood had clearly not improved since his arrival. "Have you done a medical degree?"

Of course he hadn't. "No."

"Well, shut up, then."

It was here that Miss Glasson interrupted, asking Doc Martin for a word, and Peter got another chance to watch the two of them talk in tones of frustration and impatience, resulting in the doctor getting angry and suggesting sharply that perhaps nine-year-olds and nursery teachers knew better than he did and that Miss Glasson should take Peter to the hospital to get checked over. With that, he stormed out.

Peter lay there, thinking about what he'd just heard. Miss Glasson had tried to tell Doc Martin that the doctor shouldn't have spoken to Peter so gruffly because he was only nine. But Peter didn't think the doc had been gruff with him. In fact, Doc Martin had been right; he _didn't_ have a medical degree, so how could he possibly know how bad his injuries were? Truth was, Peter _did_ know by the continuing pain that his injuries were worse than he was letting on, and he was secretly glad the doctor had suggested the hospital.

Meanwhile, Miss Glasson stepped to his side and tried to apologise for Doc Martin's behavior, saying that it had been her fault, but Peter knew her apology wasn't necessary and explained why. "Mum said not to show people that you're clever, because if they're _not_ clever, they don't like it. The doc _is_ clever, and I thought he'd like it." Peter believed the doc _had_ liked his cleverness, but the look on Miss Glasson's face showed she wasn't quite as certain.

Out in the schoolyard on the way to her car, Miss Glasson again tried to make amends. "If it's any consolation," she said, "saying the right thing at the right time to the right person…no one finds that easy."

But Peter guessed this comment had more to do with what Doc Martin had said to _her_ than what the doc had said to _him_. He decided to test his theory by asking a bold question. "Do you love him?"

She answered so quickly in the negative that he knew her real answer was probably just the opposite. When she further told him to mind his own business, he knew his theory had been proven.

Unfortunately, it didn't help with the pain in his belly.

**oOo oOo oOo**

The x-ray machine gave him the willies and the pain in his midsection was getting worse, but he put on a brave front, if only to fool Miss Glasson. He badly wanted to shout that something was terribly wrong, but he figured sooner or later, _someone_ would sort it, so he kept quiet.

When the nurse told him the x-rays showed no broken bones, only an _intercostal sprain_, it did nothing to ease his fear that his insides might be coming apart.

Back in the village, Miss Glasson stopped to buy them an ice cream. While he was waiting in the car, Caroline Bosman came on the radio, inviting people to call in. First up was the question of Doc Martin's fear of blood. Peter couldn't stand to hear it and turned it off, but not before Miss Glasson heard part of it and questioned him. It was clear this was the first time Miss Glasson had heard of the doctor's trouble with blood.

Delivering Peter to his mother wasn't easy, and though Miss Glasson tried to make it sound like it was not a big deal, hearing that he'd been hurt during PE only triggered another panic attack in his mum. Peter had her sit down and asked Miss Glasson to fetch some water. Eventually, he and Miss Glasson were able to calm her down and convince her he was all right.

This, too, did not help with the pain in his belly.

**oOo oOo oOo**

As the day progressed into evening, Peter found he could no longer keep quiet about his pain. He was so very hot, his neck hurt along with his stomach, and when he finally approached his mother, he knew he must have looked a fright because he only had to put a hand out to her to send her into a full-blown panic attack.

Lying in his bed, he had a vague, disjointed memory of both Miss Glasson and Doc Martin at his bedside, and he _thought_ they were holding hands and dressed like a bride and groom, but the next thing he really remembered was waking up in the ambulance, still in pain, with the doc sitting beside him.

He pulled the oxygen mask from his face, struggling to speak. "I was wrong…the _intercostal sprain_."

"We'll see," the doc said. "Let's get you to hospital. You might be right."

Weak though he was, Peter still had the presence of mind to be impressed by the doctor's unusually gentle response. But it didn't feel right to him. "No," he said with as much force as he could, "you tell the truth. Most adults…" he trailed off, not wanting to say that most adults lied, because he knew they didn't, but wanting to make a different point with Doc Martin. In his head were things he wanted to say, like how much he appreciated the way the doctor talked to him, not like he was nine years old, but like he was a person, with thoughts and ideas that deserved to be heard, but he couldn't get his lips to form the words. "You tell the truth" was all he could manage.

"Okay, Peter," he heard the doc quietly say, as the doc slipped the mask over his mouth and nose again, "I think when you fell in the gym, you may have hurt one of your important organs. You've some shoulder tip pain on your left-hand side, so I suspect that it's the spleen."

His spleen? He knew a person could live without a spleen, but there was something funny about the doctor's voice, something that compelled him to ask for confirmation. "You can live without your spleen, can't you?"

"Yes, you can. But…you may be bleeding inside, so that's why we're getting you to the hospital."

Right, then. That explained why the doc sounded funny. Internal bleeding was definitely a bad thing. He tried to sound brave when he asked the doc if he was going to be okay, and felt relief at the doctor's reassuring words, glad this time for the doctor's atypical gentleness.

"If I have anything to do with it, yes. And Peter, I'm sorry if I was rude earlier. I was having a bad day."

Now _this_, he knew _all_ about. "You've got to let them tease you."

"What's that?" The doctor asked, clearly confused.

Peter pulled the mask away from his face again, struggling to get it said while he could still remember how put words together. "You've got to let them tease you. After a while, they say 'oh yes, he's one of us.' You've got to let them tease you…"

That was the last thing he remembered before darkness fully claimed him.

The next thing Peter remembered was waking up in the hospital, his mother by his side, looking like she hadn't slept in a week, but definitely breathing like a normal person. She began crying when he smiled at her.

He took a deep breath, testing his body, and was relieved to feel no pain at all in his neck or in his midsection, and only an odd itchy ache on his left side, which he attributed to the incision from where they had removed his spleen.

For the first time in his life, he was looking forward to doing PE again. Well, almost.

End Chapter 2.


	3. Skin Deep

Title: The Cronk Chronicles, Chapter 3 (Skin Deep)  
Author: DianeB  
Rating: PG-13

See Chapter 1 for original Summary, Author's Notes, and Disclaimer.

Chapter 3 special thank you: **Littleguinea** has been a treasure to me throughout this entire effort, and even though I've already said so in Chapter 1's Author's Notes, I felt it worth repeating. All errors with regard to "Americanisms" or basic grammar and punctuation remain mine and mine alone.

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Peter spent a lot of time looking at his new scar. Doc Martin had given him some ointment to rub on it, saying after a while the scar wouldn't be so puffy and red. But Peter liked the way it looked and so didn't use the ointment much. He knew eventually it would fade, with or without treatment, but for now, he was happy with it. He toyed with the idea of using it to scare his classmates, but dismissed that in favour of _any_ idea better than a silly three-inch scar.

**oOo oOo oOo**

The day the electric bill arrived would have been a day like any other, except for the fact that it wasn't a bill so much as a final reminder of an _overdue_ bill and Peter made the mistake of saying that out loud to his mother while she was behind the counter at the chip shop. His attempt to reassure her that it was okay did not make her reaction any less panicked, and it was in this state that she managed to plunge her hand right into the fryer filled with hot oil.

It was a very good thing that Bert and Al Large had been in the shop when it had happened, as their immediate assistance freed Peter to do what he always did when it came to his mum: fetch her inhaler and encourage her to calm down and breathe. Al called Doc Martin and he arrived almost at once, quickly assessing the situation and calling for an ambulance.

After getting the clingfilm for his mother's arm, Peter sat watching the frenzied activity, absently scratching his scar through his shirt, impressed by the doctor's manner. The doc was callous on the outside, sure, but when it came to real medical emergencies, Doc Martin was all business, completely focused and professional, and in his own odd way, compassionate. Peter kept this to himself, knowing if he said it out loud to anyone in the village, they'd laugh him right off the edge of a cliff.

Meantime, Bert and Al – well, Bert – had offered to take over the shop while his mum got better, and it was as clear as glass that his mum really did _not_ want Bert's help.

**oOo oOo oOo**

Sometime later, Peter was sitting with his mother in hospital, trying without success to get her to talk about anything except him or the state of the shop. He glanced up in time to see Doc Martin pass by the open door. Excusing himself, Peter ran to catch up with the big, swift-moving man, managing to provide the doc with the correct details of his mum's treatment before he braved a comment regarding the real reason he'd chased after him.

"Mum's worried about where I'll sleep tonight."

"What's wrong with your house?"

"Nothing, apart from the fact that I'll be by myself, which I'm guessing is against the law. So I'll have to stay with an…_adult_," Peter said, pausing in his stride to emphasise the last word and look pointedly at the doc.

Martin stopped and looked back at Peter, clearly recognising his meaning. "No. Out of the question. Not with me. No."

"Why?"

"Because it's simply not possible. Obviously."

Peter couldn't see anything "obvious" about it, but his next question _was_ fairly obvious. "Well, where should I go?"

Martin stumbled over the words, but managed to spit it out. "Louisa, er, Miss Glasson's."

Now, Peter adored Miss Glasson, she was his favourite teacher, but he didn't want to stay with her. He wanted to stay with Doc Martin, but it was abundantly clear that trying to reason with the doctor about where he should spend the next few days was like trying to reason with Miss Glasson about team games.

Thus, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, he was dumped without fanfare on Miss Glasson's doorstep. To Peter, it seemed like Doc Martin couldn't leave the doorstep fast enough, and Peter suspected the reason had more to do with Miss Glasson than it did with him. Nevertheless, he was stuck where he was, whether he liked it or not.

After a deadly half hour of sitting on Miss Glasson's couch, peering occasionally into the kitchen where his teacher sat frowning over a three-ring notebook full of papers, Peter decided to engage her in conversation, just for something to do.

Unfortunately, this conversation didn't go very well for him, and in the end he was forced to accept that teachers had a private life they were entitled to. At least Miss Glasson had been up front with him about it, and for that he was grateful. Standing there in the silence that came after, a perfectly brilliant idea came to him. With as much innocence as he could muster, he said carefully, "Okay, I'll go then."

She seemed immensely relieved, and this blinded her to what he was _really_ saying. "Thanks, Peter," she said, adding as he turned from her, "Hey, and don't forget to brush your teeth. 'Night."

"'Night," he said, and went without a sound straight out the back door, grabbing his backpack on the way out.

**oOo oOo oOo**

Peter figured the look on Doc Martin's face when he opened the surgery door was worth a week of team games. "Peter!"

"Miss Glasson," he said, trying to look as pathetic as possible, "had other things on her mind."

The doc waved him in and then immediately got on the phone to Miss Glasson. Peter, in the meantime, settled on the couch, surprised that it was more comfortable than it looked, and felt himself drifting off almost immediately. He faked sleep when the doc yelled his name, and then made himself stay awake just long enough to be sure Miss Glasson was not coming tonight to fetch him.

**oOo oOo oOo**

In the morning, Peter argued with the doc during the entire walk to school, about everything from Peter not needing an escort to school to visiting his mum in hospital, and Peter couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed himself so much. There was just something about Doc Martin that Peter found irresistible, and suspected a psychiatrist might say he'd found a "father figure." Peter guessed it was probably more like an "uncle figure," but whatever it was, Peter knew he liked Doc Martin a lot and didn't care a bit if the doc didn't share his affection.

Peter knew Miss Glasson liked Doc Martin a lot, too, but he thought perhaps the doc _did_ share some of that affection.

The scruffy black dog, who seemed to follow Doc Martin everywhere, had been outside the surgery as they'd exited, eager to be noticed, but the doctor ignored him as thoroughly as if the dog hadn't been there at all.

Upon arrival outside the school, Peter stood back while Doc Martin spoke to Bobby's mum, after which he went straight to Miss Glasson, and the two of them began quarreling over what sounded like some sort of skin infection that was spreading among the children. But as it seemed with many adults Peter knew, they often said one thing with words, while saying quite another with body language, and Doc Martin and Miss Glasson seemed to be really good at it.

As the doc stomped past him, Peter looked around and caught Miss Glasson looking at him. She approached him and apologised for the way she'd treated him the night before.

He shrugged his shoulders, pretending not to care. "Yeah, whatever."

But she wouldn't let him get away without accepting at least some of the responsibility. "Oh, Peter, don't…it's not like you're completely innocent. You can't just decide to walk out in the middle of the night without talking to anyone, mmm?" She ruffled his hair and added, "Eh, _Petey_."

He mocked what she'd said earlier to Doc Martin about addressing her as "Louisa" in front of the children. "Only Peter in front of the kids."

She shoved him in a friendly manner and it warmed his heart.

**oOo oOo oOo**

After school, Peter stole off directly to the bus stop at the far end of town, intent on getting to the hospital before anyone could stop him. It didn't quite work out that way, as PC Mylow found him only a few minutes after he'd arrived, even though he'd tried to duck out of sight behind the hedgerow. Mark hauled him back to the doctor's surgery, where he had to sit in the jeep and watch Doc Martin once again refuse to take him.

In the end, however, Mark somehow managed to convince the doc to take Peter to Truro to see his mother. Peter wasn't sure how he'd accomplished this, but it raised Mark up enough in Peter's eyes for Peter to consider offering to help Mark build new bird tables. It was old news that Peter hadn't been the one who'd destroyed the tables, but since it wasn't likely that Park Ranger Stewart would be building new ones anytime soon (or ever), Peter thought this might be a good way to thank Mark for helping him today. The bird tables, after all, still needed replacing.

On the way out of town, he and the doc stopped by the chip shop to see how Bert and Al were doing, but that brought Peter no comfort, and he decided in this case it would be best to lie outright to his mother when she asked about the shop – and she _would_ ask. Unfortunately, he failed to advise Doc Martin of his decision and so the doc did what he always did: told the unvarnished truth about what a cock-up Bert (without Al, no less) was making of the shop, and so sent his poor mum into a stratospheric asthma attack.

A nurse was rapidly called for and Peter spent the better part of the next hour talking his mother off the ledge of her hysteria, reassuring her a hundred times that the shop was fine, which she of course refused to believe. The doc spent this time sitting in a chair in the corridor, and when Peter came out, he simply stood without a word and headed for the exit, clearly expecting Peter to keep up or be left behind.

Back in the village, they stopped at the market for a few groceries, and Peter was able to persuade the doc to let him get a video by saying it was "educational," when it was really a low-budget adult film called _Chainsaw Rodeo_. Peter knew the doc would never look twice, and he was right. Further banter in the store between he and the doc about whether or not television had even been invented when the doc was young left Peter in a very good mood, despite the fact that his mum was still in hospital and the chip shop was likely going under.

A little while later, Peter settled on the couch to watch his "educational" video while the doc cleaned up after dinner. The arrival of Miss Glasson gave Peter a moment of doubt about his chances of getting to the end of his video, but it soon became a secondary concern as he re-focused his attention on the two adults in the kitchen. There was so much tension between them that Peter wondered if they even heard what they actually said out loud to one another.

As luck would have it, he was concentrating so hard on pretending _not_ to be listening that when Miss Glasson breezed into the room to say hello, he had to feign interest in the video, which was, thank goodness, not too difficult a task, considering the screen was filled with well-built, half-naked women with their _virgin eyeballs_, screaming their lungs out. Miss Glasson grabbed the remote and viciously switched it off, her outrage at Doc Martin surpassing his mum's asthma attack in terms of stratospheric heights.

Once the dust settled on that, Peter sat in the now-quiet living room, listening once more to a conversation that – while easier to hear with the video off – proved to be no less tension-filled than any of the others had been, and ended this time with Miss Glasson storming out.

**oOo oOo oOo**

Later that night, Peter came awake to a fierce itching on the inside of his wrist. After a half hour of laying there trying not to scratch and debating with himself about whether or not this was important enough to wake the doc, he recalled the argument that afternoon between the doc and Miss Glasson about the skin infection that was spreading among the children. Yes, he decided, it was important enough to risk the doc's anger to get some relief.

**oOo oOo oOo**

On the playground the next day, Peter again observed Miss Glasson and Doc Martin bickering about the skin infection (which he'd learned was called _impetigo_) and what the doc saw as Miss Glasson's blatant disregard for his medical advice. He touched the new outcrop of blisters on his face and wondered with a fiendish curiosity just how bad things were going to get.

Later that afternoon, Peter was sitting in the window seat at the surgery, eating biscuits with Pauline, when the doctor barreled in and immediately began scolding him for sitting there, potentially infecting others. Before banishing him to the kitchen, he asked Peter to write down the names of all the friends he'd been in contact with in the last 48 hours, to which Peter replied, "I'm like you, I don't have any friends." It didn't go unnoticed by Peter that Doc Martin had nothing to say to that.

From the kitchen, Peter heard Bobby Richards and his mum arrive in the surgery and could tell by the muffled voices on the other side of the wall that the treatment wasn't working, and that maybe the doctor's initial diagnosis of _impetigo_ was incorrect.

Returning to the waiting room with his list, Peter heard the doctor ask Pauline to send some of Bobby's skin samples to the pathology lab for further testing, and Peter questioned him about it, confirming what he'd heard through the wall, that there was a chance that it might not be _impetigo_. He was then sternly ordered to return to the kitchen.

Walking down the hallway to the kitchen, Peter reflected on what the doc was doing regarding the skin infection. Yes, he knew it was a doctor's job to search for the right answer and not stop until he'd found it, but still, he knew Doc Martin was rarely wrong, and so Peter admired the effort, as well as the doctor's grudging admittance that he may have misdiagnosed the problem.

A little while later, a taxi delivered his much-improved mother home, though she was clearly torn between being worried about the blisters on his face and relieved that things were, in fact, going well at the shop.

**oOo oOo oOo**

No one, including Peter, had any idea the reason _why_ things were going so well at the shop, nor did they ever learn, thanks to Al Large, and – in his own twisted but well-meaning way – Bert Large himself.

**oOo oOo oOo**

In his continuing effort to find excuses to stop by the surgery, Peter walked in after school a few days later to pick up the exercise book he had purposely left there. Pauline wasn't paying any attention to him, so he walked past her, hearing someone talking on the speaker phone in the doc's office, saying a number of unfamiliar words, one of which was _zoonosis_. Since the office door was partially open, Peter simply stood in the shadow of the door and asked what the word meant.

That he'd startled the doctor was abundantly clear by the way he shouted at Peter not to listen to people's private conversations, demanding to know why Peter was even at the surgery. Peter didn't bother to point out that the door was open, opting instead to use his original excuse, that of fetching his exercise book. Still, he wanted to know what a _zoonosis_ was, and after assuring the doctor that he'd only look it up if he wasn't told, the doc relented and explained that a _zoonosis_ was a disease that could be passed from animals to humans.

Peter may not have known the word, but he knew its definition, and now he better understood the word itself. _Zoonosis _began with the word _zoo_, a place where humans went to see animals. It made remarkably good sense and it prompted another question. "Like bird flu?"

"Yes."

He knew his next question couldn't possibly be answered the same way, or the doc would surely have rounded up all the infected children and sent them off to hospital by the fastest means possible. But he asked anyway, curious as to what the doctor would say. "So, are we gonna die?"

And Doc Martin answered just in the way Peter knew he would. "Not soon enough for my liking," he said, standing and ushering Peter out of the office. "You've probably got just enough time to get home. If you run."

Walking into the waiting room, they saw the dog at the same time, but it was Doc Martin who put the pieces together. The dog, no doubt sensing trouble for himself, whimpered and took off out the open window.

The doc immediately demanded that Pauline call PC Mylow to have him pick up the dog and have it destroyed, or, as he put it, "sent to that big doggie basket in the sky."

As the doctor marched back into his office, presumably to wait for Mark Mylow to bring him a dead dog, Peter turned toward Pauline, who sat with the phone's receiver in her hand. "Oh, no, love," she said, "the doc doesn't mean that. He's just upset about the skin problem. You know how he is. He won't have the dog put to sleep for no reason, yeah?" She paused, and Peter could feel her eyes on him. "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"But, you know, if there's anything wrong with the dog that would make him attack people, PC Mylow's going to have to do the right thing. You understand that, don't you?"

He did understand that and nodded.

"Right. But don't you worry," she said, as she began to make her call, "that dog's not going anywhere. The doc's just frustrated that he can't figure out what's wrong with you children. We'll get it sorted."

As Pauline made the connection with Mylow, Peter pulled a medical journal from the shelf and settled on the window seat to research the other thing he'd heard while standing in the doctor's doorway: _erysipelothrix rhusiopathiae_. It didn't take him long to learn that what he had was essentially a "flesh-eating bug," which could not have been more brilliant. Exclaiming this to Doc Martin as the doc stepped back into the waiting room only resulted in a typical outburst from the man.

"It's a microorganism transferred from animals to humans, most commonly children, because they're disgusting! Now, _please_. Leave!"

Peter was quite happy to obey the doctor this time, because now he finally had something decent with which to scare his classmates.

And he also believed no scruffy black dog was going to die today or any other day.

**oOo oOo oOo**

Though Peter was sorry the adults responsible for deciding whether or not Miss Glasson would become head teacher heard Miss Glasson threaten to throttle him and feed him to the seagulls if he didn't stop terrorizing his classmates, he did not regret a minute of the time spent doing it.

Peter eventually learned that his "bug" was treatable, and that the doctor was ready that day to do the treating. Suffering the penicillin jab to his hip was disappointing only because the doc told him he couldn't keep the bug for another couple of days. Otherwise, it stung quite a bit. Still, when Miss Glasson went past him into the room where the doctor had been handing out jabs, Peter was glad he'd lingered outside, because he was able to overhear a number of things that made the sting of the jab disappear completely: one, his terrorizing tactics had _not_ cost Miss Glasson her chance at being head teacher, and two, the dog that had started it all had indeed been spared.

And for the first time in many days, Peter didn't hear tension in the voices of his favorite teacher and his favorite "uncle." Raising his shirt and twisting around to get a look at his scar, he smiled, dropped his shirt, and went outside to see if there was anyone still around who might not have gotten the word that his bug had been killed.

The Very End


End file.
